


Cycles

by daydreamz618



Series: The Cycles AU [1]
Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: "Cycles" AU, No Proofreading We Die Like Men, Post Game, i dont know where i'm going with this, prologue for a later work maybe?, we'll figure it out together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-07 17:09:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10365501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daydreamz618/pseuds/daydreamz618
Summary: If there’s a reason why you’d read the diary of a woman you despise while she’s in Alaska receiving therapy, you figured, now would be a good time to contemplate it, but all of that comes to a stop when you start to read the notes. Day by day entries, only partially chronological, containing bits and pieces of what you swear you could almost mistake for a very familiar eleven day pattern.~An AU idea I typed up real fast~





	

**Author's Note:**

> It's 4:53 and this fic is short and might not even make sense, but I hope it's ok I haven't posted a fanfiction in 4 years. The concept of the AU is that Rika was the player before you, but the pressure of trying to help everyone at once, and the futility of that lead to the events that set up the game as we know it. the plan is to write a fic later about the next MC, whose game will have different options and take place some time after the story as we know it.

Emptying the apartment was a long and terrifying task that you had put off for as long as possible. The entire suite absolutely overflowed with reminders of her. In the beginning, it had been so easy to stay, passing beside photographs of someone you had never even met, sleeping on her bed, using her kitchen, but now? Now every step you took inside was dripping with everything you did wrong, that she did wrong, that you could have fixed if only the clock had struck midnight on day one just one more time, just one more try, and they’d be happy, all of them. They’re happy now, to some extent, you reasoned. You really did do everything you could have, discounting complete and utter manipulation.

Either way, it was over now, officially. No time loops, no resets or saves or warning labels, this is life now. And, being part of it, it had been unanimously decided that you would be the best person to go through all of the information in the apartment and organize it, objectively. Things that can be thrown away, things that need to be filed or burned like guest information, things that can be kept by Yoosung, and things to be… discussed. For example, sticky notes with dates of meetings with the venue owners? Thrown away. Rui’s personal information? Filed. Personal information of a guest turned ex cult participant? Burned. Old group photo? Yoosung can have that. Last but not least, stacks of papers with diary entries, and notes that look to keep getting messier? This is new. You might have to talk about that with Saeyoung about those. After you read them, though.

 

If there’s a reason why you’d read the diary of a woman you despise while she’s in Alaska receiving therapy, you figured, now would be a good time to contemplate it, but all of that comes to a stop when you start to read the notes. Day by day entries, only partially chronological, containing bits and pieces of what you swear you could almost mistake for a very familiar eleven day pattern. You slow down, floored by all of the assumptions being thrown at you, and decide to read one page entirely.

 

_ "Dear Diary, _

_ I think it has to be impossible, or close to it, that in none of these scenarios things turn out even the slightest bit alright. It has to be here somewhere, one single correct course of action, some way to pull them all together without hurting anyone. I’ve been going back and forth between the three of them, trying to find the version with the least damage in the first place, and I think if I can go about this objectively I might figure it out. These are all supposed to be options, they’re all supposed to be good, and yet no matter what, someone is miserable. Who I talk to first might completely decide how this goes, I only hope I can choose well. If I don’t come up with something in the next few cycles, I might need to start thinking of bigger ideas, things that might take a little longer than a week and a half. I’m trying not to crack under the pressure, but I’m starting to get anxious. Today is the fifth “official start” of our organization, and tomorrow morning I’ll be starting over. If i stay with the pattern right now, V is next. I’ll see if I can do any better than before." _

 

The next few pages are webs of information, almost impossible to read. Some is written so small that you can barely see it, others don’t make sense, and some of it is scratched out entirely with frustrated black marks, what you can read, however, is enough to tell that these notes are just the more useful and concise version of what she was writing about. “ ~~ Jumin, day seven, possible to stop V from leaving? ~~ ” “V, 10, cat ~~?? ~~ ” “never not support Yoosung!” “Zen, 8,  **NO motorcycle ride!!** ”

The next few pages were lists, with notes identical to those on the graph, but more legible. You kept reading. You read the whole account, out of order but still chronological enough to understand. The diary entries only got more obsessive, anxious, desperate. “I wonder how long it could last if I broke and told them everything. Everything. Would they just leave me? If they left me, would I be able to start over?” “I need to help them, I have to, I can’t fail, I’d do  **anything** .” “I know them so well, I have to be able to use that somehow. Maybe a hint of improbable knowledge won’t be so bad if they already rely on me completely.”

You finally pushed the papers away from you. What were you supposed to do with this information? Could you tell anyone? Would that matter? You hesitantly dropped the stack onto the “discussion pile” and sat down on the floor for a moment. You hated her, the woman whose fault it was that you couldn’t help everyone. She had failed so miserably. She had failed so miserably at what you had now failed at as well. You’d like to think you did better than she had, but you’d never anticipated having anything in common with her at all. It was sickening, and interesting, and sad, and it made you want to leave the apartment for air that wasn’t dripping in her existence, and you did, but one question lingered in the air.

If this continues to go on, will someone be here after you?


End file.
